


me + you

by wtfmulder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, oooooooooooooooh my god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-06 10:32:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13409385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfmulder/pseuds/wtfmulder
Summary: Set immediately post-Plus One. They're fuckin, yall.





	me + you

The Fountain of Youth is just a silly little tourist trap in St. Augustine, Florida, overrun by peacocks and over-the-hill folks in fanny packs and neon visors. She had sipped the water from the tiny plastic cup, as had Mulder, which they both spat out and declared it as tasting of hardboiled eggs — unsalted. It’s not real. There’s no such thing as forever young. Some might bathe in the blood of enslaved virgins, others might resort to surgery or orchestrate the apocalypse as a way of staying on top.

He is as close as she is ever going to get. The way he looks at her. She opens the door to find him propped against the frame, waiting and ready. The way he knows her. One of the perks of being older, she supposes, is knowing a person as well as they know each other. This is the kind of bond that takes years to build, the passing of time softening their hearts like wind on earth’s crust.

He’s pressing his chest into her fists balled up in his shirt, walking them backwards.

“You were  _so worried_ that we were  _so old,_ Scully, and now look at us.” The backs of her knees hit the bed, and they both sink down onto it. “Going a second round.”

 “At least the bed will be better on our knees,” she gasps, clutching his bicep as he lays her down, straddling her, pushing his face into the crook of her neck. His breath and his lips tease life into her, his hot, damp kisses refreshingly exploratory, as if he hasn’t known her body intimately for over a decade, or reintroduced himself to it only hours ago.

Then again, the weight of him on top of her  _is_  different, exciting and new. She hadn’t had the pleasure last round. He’s in the best shape of his life, brute strength and sound, impeccable mind. Everywhere she touches is tough as nails, her hands fluttering over his back and down his arms, encountering rigid muscle after rigid muscle. If he tenses just for her, pauses to let her feel him up, there’s nothing she can do but enjoy the ride and the show, lay hands on all that is hers and always has been.

He licks down her throat and then kisses her on the lips, chaste and sweet, only pulling away to help her unbutton the rest of his shirt, pinning her wrists down so he can divest her of her blouse and bra without her distracting interference. From the waist up, they are both bare, his belt undone but stuck in the loops of his pants.

The light is still on. They’d made love in the dark and under the covers in the room right next door, slow and speechless while her hips rose over his in deep, humid waves, calm enough so that they might swim away from their fear and loneliness.

Crowsfeet and graying temples do nothing to disguise the roguish wonder that takes over his face at the sight of her, and despite the insecurity that had plagued her earlier, she doesn’t think she can stomach the verbal praise. They’re no good at talking.

“Oh Scully,” he shakes his head and sighs, bringing gentle hands to cup and knead her. She mewls, pushing up into his hands, her eyes rolling back at the sensation of perfect pressure and his brilliant thumbs stroking her into stupidity. “How I’ve missed your marvelous tits.”

“Oh my god, shut it,” she groans, dragging him down by his cheeks and jaw. This kiss is long. The taste of him could be aged in barrels and sold as wine, and she could drink, could drink, could drink. His big nose snuffles against the apple of her cheek, and she remembers just how much she’s missed him.

He pulls back again, tugging at his belt and throwing it near the foot of the bed, and she works to peel her own pants off. His eyes fall to her legs, to the thighs she’s trained painstakingly for the day she might have to crush something between them.  _She_  is in great shape, too. She hates that she has to remind herself. She is healthier than ever, draws more attention than ever, but then again that never counted for much.

“Scully,” Mulder starts, frowning when she shakes her head.

“Mulder,” she warns.

They stare each other down, daring the other to make the wrong move. Stripping each other naked before the rest of their clothes come off. Then he’s shuffling to the bottom half of the bed, yanking her toward him by her ankles. She yelps when he hunches over and buries his face in her panties, nipping and sucking through pink cotton. His hands roam everywhere, thumbs running down the lines of her stretch marks, digging in to the flares of her hips.

“Oh, you—“ she wheezes and she moans, slotting her fingers through his lucky head of hair. “You already did that, buddy.” But she pushes him closer, spreading her thighs when she feels his nose bump against her clit.

He hooks his fingers underneath the elastic waistband, and she brings her knees up to help him pull her underwear over her legs.

Then it’s just her and him, teeth and tongue and liquid ache. Back in the day he told her going down on her cleared his head, and she’d been content to pretend she believed him.

He sure was (and  _is_ , Jesus, Mary and Joseph) good at it. He gets her wet with his salvia, his lips pulling and pushing her to peak arousal, coaxing her own juices to come out and play with him, let him drink from the source. She sizzles and clenches, scraping her nails over his scalp when his fingers dig in to the cheeks of her ass, hauling her closer to his face and leaving quite a lasting mark.

She had stopped him from voicing it aloud, but the meaning wasn’t lost. He loves her, doesn’t fear her, not the loss of her youth, the color of her hair, the tightness of her skin. His touch is a time stamp of the last time he had loved her so fiercely, and he can’t keep his hands off of her.

The fear she harbors of never being enough is not his fault. Her guilt at him never getting to be a father, of holding him back from a joy that could have filled out a lifetime of hollow spaces: that won’t go away. But neither will the facts. He is her partner, the love of her life, the father of her child. She never stopped wanting that with him. Even when they can’t have it, she knows they never will stop wanting it, and that doesn’t always have to be such a sad thing.

Her orgasm heavy on his tongue makes him smirk when he languidly crawls over her body. She hopes she was loud, that it hurt when she tugged at his hair, that he fought for his life when he tried to pry her thighs away from his ears. She can’t remember. She clutches the cross and fights past the burning in her lungs, squeezing her eyes shut.

When she comes to, he’s propped up on his elbow, watching her fondly through amused and lightened eyes. It’s the most natural thing in the world to reach out for him, to drape herself along his torso like silk.

She unzips his pants, slips her hand under his boxers. He twitches in her palm, semi-hard and gaining speed, and she licks her fingers to stroke him slowly, using the other hand to caress his chest, his neck. He groans loudly when she takes a pebbled nipple into her mouth, scratching and tugging at his sparse chest hair, thrusts into her slack wet fist when she bites a tendon in his neck, sucks on the shell of his ear, rubs her breasts against his chest and kisses the life out of him. She doesn’t ever feel the urge to say it like he does, but she worships him, too. His body is proof of all the things that could never kill him, all the times he’s put himself in harm’s way for her sake, his body is sacrifice and pleasure and honor.

Second round. Her back hurts from the last time, and they’re both still beat up and bruised from the whole mess with the home invaders, not to mention a long weekend of assembling IKEA furniture. They fall into the most comfortable position, the way they spoon at night when fate allows them to share a bed. She scoots, he presses his chest to her back and draws her close as can be. He lifts her leg to align his cock with her entrance, and she holds it up for him as he teases her open, rubbing the crown lightly against her slit, then jutting upwards with a sharp, pointed thrust.

The still-sore muscles stretch to accommodate him, and she grunts, fingers curling into the bed sheets while he murmurs soothing words into her ear, nosing aside her hair to tug at her earlobe with swollen lips.

The pace picks up, and soon he is snapping in and out of her in their familiar, always-a-little-rough rhythm. It means everything that he hasn’t forgotten how her body works, that they still fit so well together. He reaches forward to cover her hand with his own, and whimpers into her neck when she bears down around him.

“Scully, honey,” he breathes, tightening his grip on her balled fist. “Throw your leg back.”

She does, tossing her leg behind his, spreading herself wider to his brutal thrusts and freeing his other hand. He brings it up to play with her nipples, pinching them, and then brings it down to where they’re joined, dragging some of the wetness from his pistoning cock and using it to slick over her clitoris.

It’s all most too much — going from less than one orgasm a day to five in one day is a lot, and she’s winded, emotionally raw and twitchy under his ministrations. She moves away from it, but he pulls her back and doubles down, and he hits a spot inside of her that has her seeing stars that have never been mapped, bliss she doesn’t deserve. She moans and encourages him bonelessly as he takes a few minutes to follow behind her, coming hard and  _deep_ , his hands clutching her hips to hold her in place. The warmth of it inside her could make her come again, and her toes curl when he pulls out of her.

They collapse, him half on top of her body smashed fast first into the pillows. They creak, they struggle for breath. She tries to roll out from underneath him, planning to head to the bathroom for to begin their normal post-coital routine, but he burrows down on top of her, brushing his panting mouth against her damp shoulder blade.

“Stay. Couple-a minutes,” he wheezes. She sleepily nods her head. A few more minutes she tries again, and he shakes his head against her back. She’ll let him fall asleep first. It’s rare she gets him this cuddly.

“Never even imagined a life without you like this,” he says shakily, after they’ve managed to calm down. Her eyes burn with tears, and she burrows closer underneath him.


End file.
